I asked a photographer friend where the best place would be to take pics of the  fight and he said, You have two choices. You can go up on the balcony or you can go to the ringside.

What’s the difference?

Well, you’ll get better shots at the ringside, but you’ll also get covered in blood and sweat.

The balcony wins.

I never saw armed cops at a sporting event before, but here they are. Three burly guys with chequered baseball caps, bulletproof jackets and snug little firearms resting on their waistbands ready to plug anyone causing trouble.

What?  I didn’t know boxing was so dangerous.

But then I realise the cops are just like me: they’ve managed to talk their way past the security and grab a place  overlooking the ring.   They’re not here for a firefight. They’re just here to see the fight.

It’s a strange atmosphere to me, because I’ve never been at a live boxing match before.  Not even an amateur one.  Not even a schoolboy fight.  I’ve never been to a real fight, though in my defence, I have seen Raging Bull, and all the Rocky movies and On The Waterfront.

No?

No, I didn’t think so either.

The French guy seems like a nice enough sort, and Andy is his usual smiling self as he strides into the ring.  You wonder why these two lads want to batter the shit out of each other.  They both look like the sort of fellas who’d never, ever start trouble in a bar or get into a street fight, but that’s the paradox of boxing I suppose.  Guys who fight in the ring understand respect and for the most part don’t let themselves down when they’re outside the ring.

But what do I know?  To be honest with you, I feel like a bit of a cheat. I’m not sure what I’m looking at but I don’t want to seem stupid so I say nothing to the people around me, which is probably just as well, since they’re all Russian, or else they’re armed police.

To my untutored eye, this French lad doesn’t seem to be trying very hard.  He spends the first eight rounds shuffling around the ring while Andy tries to hit him.  He doesn’t hit back until round nine and I haven’t the slightest idea who’s landing the better punches.  As round 10 approaches, I have to text Mr Out, who’s elsewhere in the arena.

Who’s winning?

I don’t know, you see.  It could be Andy or it could be the French guy.  I just don’t know.

Lee, comes the terse reply, and so it turns out.

Wrinkly Paddy is texting me as well.  He needs to knock this bum out to attract the big Yankee bucks.

I’m not his fuckin coach, I reply.  Will I tell him what you said?

He knows, comes Paddy’s answer, and I’m sure he does.  Since I know nothing about this sport, I’m not exactly qualified to disagree.

Belghecham wakes up in Round 9, when his coach reminds him that he might lose his money if he doesn’t at least pretend to fight, and he comes out of his corner swinging punches, but it doesn’t last.  After a few seconds, he lapses back into his crab-impression, and the fight grinds on inexorably to its conclusion.

This, I’m learning, is not destined to be a classic bout.  It isn’t even a meat-grinder.  This is run-of-the-mill pugilism with two guys doing a day-job.  Not good.  I’d be bored if I wasn’t trying to get a good picture.

Anyway, as it turns out, Andy wins on points which is good, but he doesn’t knock out the French guy, so he’ll have to wait for the big Yankee bucks, I suppose.

Here’s a few pics.

[View with PicLens]

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